Stolen Vinegar Moments ©
by Shadafakup
Summary: •Slash• Kisses; so acrid that acid tastes sweet. Touches; so meaningless that it scorches the skin. And moments, that might have been theirs. •DH•


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**Stolen Vinegar Moments**

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**Warning**: Contains male/male relationships, and more angst than should be allowed.  
**Disclaimer**: It is fanfiction my friends, I can't even afford paid accounts.  
**Dedications**: This is entirely for **Relle**, who's probably tired of getting things dedicated from me. Thanks for being a sweetie, and happy birthday. )

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Kisses; so acrid that acid tastes sweet. Touches; so meaningless that it scorches the skin and leaves red welts and purple bruises that ring like ivy, twisting around the edges of collarbones and dislocated wrists. And the pleasure still comes, in the middle of the night, very much like a transient moment gifted by the fleeting wings of addiction.

Draco steps into the room, not a minute early or late, for Malfoys hate to wait. The half smoked cigarette still dangles cooly between his tightly pursed lips, for nicotine helps him through this. Hands grab at his collar the minute he enters, with an intensity that forces the fabric squeaks in protest. The door slams shut and a rusty bolt clicks – the whole affair, so intense; yet where secrecy is never forgotten.

Tonight is important, and Harry knows, for his body screams of urgency and they both tango a little more clumsily than nights before. The pale moon does not lend the night sky its incandescent shimmer (for it is weeping with the knowledge of things to come).

Pressed so closed they practically merge, the darkness is so profound it becomes their only guiding beacon. Sight never mattered here, it is purely about the touching, marking, grasping every shred of bare skin. Time is non-existent simply because her victims refuse to acknowledge time as a whole, but believe only in each vodka-shot moment.

"You are memorizing this."

"Yes Potter. And you know you are doing the same."

A cold shudder and Harry tightens his grip on Draco's shoulder, knowing full well that tomorrow the stark bruise will show on Draco's skin, but still be hidden away from the rest of the prying world.

Every second in the shadows tonight is desperate, is hungry, and is angry; it is pain all squahed into one and rolled down the corridor of neccessity. Harry is brazenly rough this once, but so is Draco, and secretly they last longer than before. Everything this desolate night is harder, harsher, devoid of gentle strokes that only spell of lies. Yet, it feels so much emptier.

And then it is over.

The ecstasy is gone, and reality comes rushing back like a homeward train. Draco hates it. And Harry detests it too.

So they start all over again.

This game, they have played it so long it becomes a frantic dependency. Like how nicotine is to Draco and cum is to Harry. Like how pride is to a Malfoy and loyalty to a Gryffindor. Like making love, without a climax or an ultimate showdown of human emotion.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Harry repeats.

And they kiss, brusquely and Draco ruthlessly intrudes into Harry's mouth. There is no permission needed, as Harry bites on Draco's tongue and pushes him against the wall. Neither shuts their eye, afraid of losing a second that would be brought back to their own beds and played over and over again. The fact that Harry knows that Draco knows, the transparency shoots them like a rush of malaria to the forehead. So powerful it is, that it steals the entire moment for itself, because tomorrow, tomorrow is redundant.

They pull away soon enough, the lack of oxygen working through their veins like heroin, making their hearts pump so loudly and so quickly, the only sound in their ears is the slamming of that organ against each other's ribcage. Stars flash across their visions, but those are red, and streaked with their crime. Where in all that fervor, it feels right.

"Tomorrow," it came out as a choked whisper (from emotion or from swallowed cum, neither could tell). "The best man wins."

And Harry says nothing as he picks up his clothes and trys sluggishly to fit into them. They feel tighter, and stick plaintively to his skin, like within those minutes, or it could have been hours, he had morphed into someone else, and the façade no longer slid smoothly around him.

Draco does not put on his clothes.

"You will not be able to tell who I am behind the mask. And I will search you out tomorrow, because the price on your head is high."

"I will not spare you either, Deatheater."

Suddenly Harry is on Draco again, capturing his wrists in a crisscross fashion above his head, as if the blonde was abandonly submitting to him. For once, Draco only emits a soft groan from his slightly parted lips, swollen and cracked from the unspoken abuse.

"One last time tonight, for tomorrow there will be no more. **It **will be no more."

Silence; but then the harsh sound of fabric tearing fills the room with sudden hostility.

_These moments - they never belonged to us.

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_**A/N**: Since Relle has read this on livejournal, posting it here is actually redundant. Tell me you wish you had never read it then, because it was trash.

•**Shadafakup**


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